


Domination

by Gipsy_Danger



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Gratuitous Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gipsy_Danger/pseuds/Gipsy_Danger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Conquer, but don’t triumph.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domination

More than bullets, momentum, and a high-powered rifle, stillness is his weapon. The moment that Soldier pauses to survey the battle, the zenith of Scout’s double jump, the way Medic waits behind Heavy just so… It’s that frozen millisecond that does them in, slumping bonelessly to the ground with a bullet between the eyes.

He’s perched under a bit of roofing, a rusting chain-link fence and shattered window providing makeshift camouflage, waiting.

Sniper has been waiting in absolute stillness for forty-five minutes, rifle trained on the control point, the taste of coffee still on his teeth. The air is thick with static, he can feel the storm through the gunmetal: unstoppable, euphoric power. Thick droplets begin to pool on his fingertips, the folds of his sleeves, the brim of his fedora, and he smiles at the challenge.

The charged air is wreaking havoc on the machines, and he’s already had to take out his own team’s Sentry. The turret had been firing without discrimination, and their own Scout had lost three fingers along with his Sandman. Medic had stapled them back on with a bit too much glee, and Scout’s hysterical cries of “ _shit, Doc, c’mon!”_  are still ringing in the canyon, painfully obnoxious.

There’s no support here, just himself and the rifle and the rain in a moment of near-serene perfection. He could wait here for hours, days; wait until he dies because the world has stopped turning and the only thing that exists is the waiting bullet and the target.

And suddenly, everything turns beautiful. Lightning cracks the building to his left, close enough and hot enough to feel his glasses rattle in their frames as the lone floodlight explodes into sparks. There’s a hissed curse below him, and his ears train on it instantly, rifle following. The RED Spy flickers into visibility, smacking his cloaking watch with uncharacteristic desperation.

Sniper would love nothing more than to shoot the man’s feet, make the bloody, sneaking coward dance like a marionette, dance until Sniper cuts the strings, because _he’s_ the god now, but no.

Professionals have standards.

Without another thought, Sniper shoots him through his mask-covered ears.

Spy drops to the ground in a spray of red, immaculate suit covered in mud and his own brains, a half-formed curse freezing in a snarl.

A viciously-delighted smirk twists his features as Sniper reloads in a liquid, unthinking movement, settling back into his roost peacefully. An appreciative whoop from Scout assures him that the team is doing equally well: a headless pile of corpses scattered across the control point attesting to the fact. There’s nothing to worry about now, he decides, watching Pyro torch Demoman’s near-empty whiskey bottle into a makeshift Molotov Cocktail.

The resulting sheet of flame is enough to force his eyes closed, assaulted briefly by the scent of burning flesh. Sniper allows himself a moment to survey the carnage, pausing on a particularly interesting melding of a Soldier helmet and the Engineer’s goggles. With a mental shake of his head, he focuses on the narrow opening of the nearby ravine, breath slowing, peripheral vision narrowing, every inch still and silent and  _patient_.

The RED Scout darts across his scope and every sense flies forward in a rush. He can hear the dirt crumbling off the boy’s cleats, taste the too-sweet cola clinging to his fingers, smell his sweaty hair and chalky bandages, he can pick out the exact shade of brown in his laughing eyes because they’re lined up perfectly in his sights, his finger twitches to the trigger and…

A tiny, dusty creak sounds somewhere to his left and he pauses. Something distant screeches at him to turn around, creating enough internal clamor for him to obey, pivoting on his heel. The air has gotten hazy, he realizes, and, wondering why he hasn’t noticed, casts a hand into the ether.

Spy flashes cigarette smoke and static for a moment, cloak failing in close quarters. Sniper makes a grab for the man’s exposed wrist, intending to break it, when four inches of white-hot steel slide through his ribcage, mockingly gentle. He chokes on a groan, back arching off the blade as he waits for the killing blow.

_It’s to be expected_ , he reasons, preparing for the shock of endorphins that follow respawn. Instead, a revolver settles across his temple, forcing every thought from his mind save one.

_Don’t move,_ it orders, rising in pitch and frequency until he’s panting into his collar, heart thrumming in double-time. Why isn’t he picking himself off the BLU Fort’s floor by now?

"Hurry up then," he snarls, gripping Spy’s arm in disguised alarm.

_Too close, too slow, too intimate_ ;  _he’s suffocating because there’s a_ reason _he’s always so far away from everyone, because he can’t breathe and can’t move and can scarcely think for the smoke and the blood…_

It’s an eternity that he stands frozen, nails gouging through spotless wool and skin, causing Spy to bite his tongue and twist the butterfly knife deeper into his skin. Sniper flails in his grip, gasping at the feeling of metal against his bones. The blade hooks upwards, he feels something tug against his ribs, tearing with surgical precision, and the fleeting pain he feels from the cut is quickly overwhelmed by absolute panic.

The seemingly insignificant cut is steadily widening across the side of his lungs.

Suddenly, years of training, acceptance of death and a genuine desire for  _everything to just end_  are completely meaningless. Agonizing, explosive coughs wrack his frame, blood speckling the wall as he chokes out a single, wheezing question.

"W-why…?" he croaks, voice high and strained with effort.

Spy’s response ghosts across his ear. “If you die here, you’ll respawn and hide again. If I keep you alive, on the other hand… You’re trapped. Trapped and harmless.”

“ _Harmless?_ " Sniper actually laughs at this, red-tinged saliva flecking his chin. "Sh-show you fuckin’ harmless…" There’s blood running from his nose too, almost black against his too-pale lips, and he smiles, a cornered animal baring its teeth. He lunges for Spy’s mask, teeth snapping, and tastes bloody cotton, ripping fabric and skin. Spy hisses a curse, one hand flying to his neck as Sniper slips out of his grasp and crashes into the fence, sending his coffee cup shattering across the ground. One hand tangles in the links, keeping him on his feet, while the other reaches blindly for a weapon, any kind of weapon, a shard of glass, a bit of pipe, anything,  _anything,_ just get him  _away…_

His hand closes around something sharp,  _perfect_ , and he slashes backwards, looking to sever the man’s jugular. The porcelain knots briefly in Spy’s collar, nicking the skin underneath,  _not enough, not nearly enough_ , and slides from Sniper’s fingers, too slick with his own blood. Spy’s reflection glitters in the surface of the glass, rain warping the light into blinding disorientation. Blinking back stars, Sniper reaches backwards, finally latching around the other man’s tie. Gasping around the blood bubbling up his throat, he heaves the Spy forward, glass exploding at the contact. Both hands press against the back of the Frenchman’s neck, pressing his face into what little glass edges the frame. The mask shreds like wet paper, and for the first time, Sniper hears a note of genuine panic creep into the man’s voice as he moans into the wall.

“ _Merde…_ ”

Sniper can feel himself grinning despite the vertigo, fingers stretching to the bloodied knife-hilt still buried under his shoulder blade. He drags the blade free with a cry, spitting blood,  _not breathing,_ coughing desperately to clear his lungs. Half-blind, he sweeps the blade forward, boots slipping.  _End it, end it, end it._

He hits the wall with a grunt, grabbing Spy’s arm as he falls forward, pulling them both to the floor. Hands shaking, Sniper stabs downwards without thinking,  _stupid, inefficient,_ and Spy flings an elbow upwards catching him in the chest. Sniper recoils, his lunge forward halted by Spy’s heel to his chin. His head snaps backwards with a  _crack_ , teeth gnashing together as he crashes into the fence. Spy is on his feet in a heartbeat, gripping him around the neck,  _as if that will do anything, can’t breathe anyway,_ twisting his wrist until the knife falls from nerveless fingers.

_It’s over_ , a tiny shred of rationality whispers.  _Let go._

Sniper slumps against the fence,  _right, right, just go_ …  _Go…_

He sighs against Spy’s fingers around his throat, peaceful, mocking. There’s nothing either of them can do. He’s already gone. There’s a bizarre serenity in it, listening to his blood slide onto the floor, barely feeling the press of the iron links into his skin.

Floating.

Blood fills his mouth, spilling over his lips, and the spell is broken by panicked survival instinct. He starts coughing again,  _can’t stop coughing_ , his entire body is shaking with the effort, hands clutching at the fence for support.

Spy’s hands are torn away by his thrashing, releasing him briefly and reattaching to his shoulders, heaving him forward. Sniper slams into the opposing wall with a cry, glasses snapping on impact. Tinted glass peppers his face; he’s overwhelmed by light even in the gray of the raging storm. Blind, blind…

He squints against the glare, Spy’s blurred shape ghosting back and forth, half cloaked. The Frenchman seems distracted by the tear in his balaclava, trying to pinch the fabric back together. Still-choking, Sniper inches backwards to his window, bloodied fingers stretching to wrap around-

Well. He hasn’t had much opportunity for  _this_.

Staggering to his full height, Sniper raises the curved blade above his head, teeth bared, and collapses forward, dragging the kukri across crimson lapels. Spy yowls, the high, strangled sound of a tortured cat, a single hand clawing for his fallen balisong.

Sniper can feel his lips quirking into a sneer, and, almost against his will, finds himself crushing the heel of his boot into Spy’s delicate fingers.

There is an audible  _crunch_  of splintering bones as the Spy curls around his shattered hand, shrieking agonized disbelief. Slowly, deliberately, Sniper raises his foot again,  _break his other hand, backstabbin’ snake had it coming, watch him_ squirm, _just like a worm on a fuckin’ h-_

A sudden flash of pain draws Sniper from his musings, and he looks down in surprise, butterfly knife buried to its hilt in his calf. He plucks the blade from his leg with a snarl, tossing it aside carelessly. He can barely feel it…

The blood-streaked walls twist forward, floor shifting as Sniper’s leg gives out on him, sending him to his knees. He catches himself on one hand, trying in vain to push himself back to his feet. His knees slide across the slick floor, threatening to send him slipping down the roost’s ladder. Ironically, it is Spy that saves him, uninjured hand knotting in his collar, nails tearing for his jugular.

Without thinking, Sniper slashes at the pale wrist, not accounting for the adrenaline surging through his veins. The kukri shears through skin, tendons, bone, not slowing until it has embedded itself in the rough floor, splattering dark blood and muscle tissue. Spy gives a shocked, keening wail, dropping to the floor, shuddering as he presses the mangled stump of his wrist into his already saturated jacket.

A finger scrapes under his ear and Sniper reaches up to investigate, recoiling in shock. Spy’s hand is locked in his collar, still encased in flawless leather, hot blood spilling down his shirtfront. Flinging the hand away in disgust, Sniper retrieves his blade from the floor, head tilting as he stares down at the RED mercenary.

Spy is still a sobbing mess of blood and pinstripes, dragging himself to the ladder with his mutilated hand, feet slipping uselessly against the floor.

Sniper can’t help it. A laugh escapes him, loud and long and hysterical, kukri moving of its own accord to sever Spy’s foot at the ankle.

The breathless scream doesn’t even register, drowned out by the raw, roaring passion in his ears; the haze of perfect vengeance blotting out the pulsing fountains of red, red, red. Human words fail him; his thoughts spiral into howling, undiluted rage as his blade falls, flinging up stringy webs of gore.

The ragged shape beneath him twitches spasmodically, spider fingers scratching their death throes across the Sniper’s chest. Batting them away with a hiss, he casts a critical eye across the mess. The only distinguishing feature in the pile of dead meat is the scarlet balaclava, stained and dripping. He wrenches the cotton away, baring bloodstained teeth in a feral grin. Finally,  _finally,_ he cansee the man’s face…

The body evaporates in his clenched fingers, whisked back to base on the screeching tempest, blood congealing in its wake. Sniper presses his palms into the spreading pool, nails scraping the floor in resentment as he stares bitterly into the red.

His hands are suddenly warm and wet and it is a long moment before Sniper connects the damp heat to the blood pouring from his lips. He tries to cough, tries to  _breathe_  but his jaw is locked and his ears are ringing and his vision is nothing but harsh, sterile white.

Sniper gives an exhausted, vindicated sigh and rests his forehead against his nemesis’ bloodstained remnants, letting the antiseptic scent of Respawn wash over him.


End file.
